The Colour of Night
by ReaperRain
Summary: Sanguine's thoughts on his favourite worshipper, Martin. Contains mild slash.


This was actually inspired by the last Martin/Sanguine-centric oneshot I did, 'Conversing With Sin'. I thought I'd delve a little deeper into their relationship, although this takes place back when Martin still worshipped him. Hopefully Sanguine isn't _too_ OOC...

Note this contains (non-graphic, don't worry) slash – that's male/male, for those who don't know. Sanguine is the god of debauchery, what did you expect?

**Disclaimer:** Oblivion: The Elder Scrolls IV belongs to Bethesda, not I.

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The Colour of Night

Martin. Martin, Martin, Martin. Undoubtedly Sanguine's favourite worshipper; gods weren't supposed to have favourites, but Sanguine wasn't exactly a conventional 'god' so it was alright. The other worshippers knew, of course; he rather enjoyed the envy flickering in their eyes, since there was nothing quite like a bit of inner turmoil. He sweetened them up before they truly started to resent Martin, however, since he didn't want his toy's face to get ruined by an overly-jealous acolyte.

But Martin was still his favourite; the boy _hungered_ for power, for pleasure, and since Sanguine provided both, he was utterly willing to serve. No request went refused, from slipping Skooma into Count whatshisname's drink, to running stark naked through the streets – and the boy hadn't even been _drunk _at the time. Still, Sanguine never tired of him, always seeing how far he could push it:

"Him," he whispered in his toy's ear during a visit to Anvil, and indicated a young, fair-haired lad – a to-be-seafarer, perhaps, "Get him to follow you. Show him the meaning of pleasure. I won't be satisfied until he's begging you not to stop."

Martin went wide-eyed – such pretty blue eyes! - and looked around, although obviously he had no statue to converse with, "A _man_, Lord Sanguine...?"

"What difference does it make? Besides..." and Sanguine _purred_, in that way that made his followers shudder all over, "You'll be thinking of _me_, won't you?"

And Martin complied. Even brought the besotted boy back to the shrine, under Sanguine's orders, for repeat performances under the moonlit sky.

Pity, the seafarer was killed shortly after. Or did he kill himself? Sanguine didn't care to remember.

Unfortunately, said incident seemed to sober Martin up a little. He became more hesitant, more reluctant, and Sanguine couldn't be having that. He kept him distracted with bits of information – collectively, a little more than he should've given away, but the further one delved into daedric magic, the harder it was to break free. He seduced him with words of lust, and the promise of arcane power. Every whispering was yet another chain to bind Martin to his god.

He even got Martin to enter his realm of Oblivion – and truly, the boy was every bit as exquisite as he looked. He conveniently forgot to mention sacrificing a few worshippers...few dozen worshippers...to make it possible, but then, he hadn't expected Martin to get homesick and go back to Nirn, the mortal plane.

...Where he'd discovered all his friends, dead from the ritual.

He'd fled back to Kvatch at that point. Sanguine tried everything, from manipulation to seduction to outright _threatening_ – and perhaps, with time, it would have worked. But then Martin had taken the holy vows of Akatosh, and all contact between Daedric Prince and acolyte was severed. Martin was his no more.

He'd thought, as an immortal, he was beyond rage, sorrow, and bitterness. Boredom, lust, and on occasion mild amusement were the usual scope of emotions he possessed. But truly, he had never felt so torn. His only repose was the news from his spies, of a trembling, nightmare-wracked Martin. Daedric magic could not simply be shaken off, after all, and to break away from it so suddenly was havoc on the soul. Enough to drive Martin to return, he had hoped, but the boy was more stubborn that he'd first thought. Most of his worshippers were much more weak-willed.

And as the years passed, Sanguine...recovered, so to speak. He never found satisfaction to the same degree, but as a god, he was not so easily broken. Martin, on the other hand...

Would never, _could_ never, forget.


End file.
